The Act of Cowardice
by Ohhdaughter
Summary: You know you'll never be as good as them - and you can't take that, can you Wormtail? /One-shot/ Peter and his foolish plans.


**The Act of Cowardice**

You don't understand, do you? What makes you so different from your friends? Is it your naivety? Or is it how susceptible you are to the teasing and taunts of the people in your year?

Or, is it your tangible fear?

It cloaks you, you know? Like a thick fog, surrounding only you, engulfing you, and everyone can see it, just not feel it as deeply as you. Does this make you more afraid, Wormtail?

You stumble through Hogwarts, barely scraping any O. and N.E. , and it's all a haze. Memories pierce through, though you severely wish they wouldn't.

You remember the fierce rain, pounding down your spirits as you walked through the grounds alone, because your _mates_ didn't tell you where they were meeting tonight, so you had to figure it out by yourself. You had never felt lonelier and more different from your friends than you did then.

It dawned on you and you couldn't shake it away – as if it were dragon dung stuck to your shoe (this had happened before on holiday with your parents, it took you six days to be able to wipe it off fully, so you had to wear the ugliest shoes you had ever seen), irremovable unless you tried and tried and then you'd still be able to smell it hanging undisguisable in the air – that your friends didn't value you as much as you valued them.

This was too much for your fifteen-year-old self to handle, wasn't it? So you went upstairs to your dorm, soaked to the bone, and you cried. Large sobs wracking your body, your pathetic-ness leeching through your wept words of condemnation, because you were so obviously a much better friend to them than they were to you, weren't you?

_Is that why you're doing this now?_

The naivety you've always harboured haunts you now. You're under some sick delusion that once you've bled your secrets out through your mouth, someone will like you. _Because disloyalty is a trait that many people find likeable, Wormtail, isn't it? _

Your hands are shaking and your instincts are screaming at you – why don't you listen to them, you _fool_? Every nerve ending is alive and bristling with the all-too familiar emotion. You clench your hands into fists, turning your knuckles a stark white, all too different from your normal ugly yellowish tinge. You force your mouth closed, and you wrench your eyes shut for just an inconsequential second, before forcing them open, wide open at what you are about to do.

You already regret it, don't you, Wormtail?

The voice beside your ear is cold and demanding, yet there's a foreign softness to it. You wish your real friends would talk like that to you. You know he doesn't, but you like to think Voldemort cares.

_He's using you_, but you don't care, do you Wormtail? You like the feel of the betrayal on your lips, as you whisper reverently the words you swore to protect with your life. You feel the consequences pass through you as Voldemort smiles triumphantly. You feel the cold dread as it removes itself from your body, and you, for a second, feel nothing, but then it crashes down on you and you try not to cry.

For that would make you look even weaker, wouldn't it? But being weak is your only talent, isn't it Wormtail? Do you even _deserve_ that nickname anymore? Now you're just Peter, because the Marauders wouldn't give out affectionate nicknames to those who betray them, would they?

Ah, you already feel the weight of what you've just said lay upon your chest as if it were a building. It squeezes your lungs of oxygen, and the dark room, however cool, is stifling and you _need_ to get out of here. But you don't. You try to calm down the chaos swinging about in your mind – and, in extension, your soul – but you're failing so quickly, faster than you've ever failed anything before, and the urge to run and jump off the most lethal bridge you can find is like a forceful hand.

It's still there, though. The need, the insatiable desire, for someone to love you, to tell you what Lily tells James, or what Sirius tells many of the girls he's dated, or what Remus' one perfectly long-term girlfriend had told him, before his secret forced him to dump her – that they love you.

You swallow your regret and you smile as the Dark Lord laughs in the face success. He says something and you miss and he says it again and his voice is sharp, like dagger across your cheek.

You're startled and you ramble and you pretend to see him smile affectionately. It's all a lie, isn't it, Peter? You're seeing what you want to see now, because the fog is all consuming and you can't deal with what you've done. You're doing the right thing – and you keep thinking this because the effort seems futile, but you put on a brave face.

He speaks of dates and times, but seems very reluctant you to talk too deeply about details in front of you. He's in the right mind to do so, isn't he?

You get a whisper of it, of what's happened, and you crumple to the ground of your empty, lonely flat. Your resolve crumbled down days ago, as soon as the treacherous words left your traitorous mouth, and the regret settled in just after your resolve floated away, and now you're a mess. You avoid the mirrors Sirius put into your small home, because you'll see a train wreck and that's the last thing you want to see. You almost miss the stone castle, where you went filled with hope and left filled with dread. Isn't it supposed to be the other way around, Peter?

You go, and you feel every terrible emotion pinch at your insides as you Apparate – badly – to where Remus had said to go. He doesn't know that it was you, and you think, then, that you can do it. You can pretend it wasn't you, and you can mourn for your best friend and his perfectly tragic family. And maybe it'll always be there, but you can deal with that. You know you won't be able to live with Sirius' gaze if they knew – if scornful stares and hate-riddled speeches. His heart has been torn out by this no doubt.

_Whose fault is this Peter? Is it yours?_ Oh yes, it is.

You think of Voldemort's appreciating gaze as the Dark Mark was burnt onto your arm – and you remember that if it had gone smoothly you'd have be superior to them, and you think that's why you did what you did. Your sleeves are pulled down now, tightly obscuring the tattoo from view. You'll find away of covering up the undeniable evidence, won't you?

But, when you get there all is not as you suspected. You feel a sense of war inside your dark soul now. An unbiased war against what you did what you should do, and what you plan on doing. It's loud and unbearable, but you ignore the innocent imitations of screaming and begging and a baby's cry, and you continue on the descent of madness.

You feel it still, don't you Peter? You still can't breathe and when he sees you – when he screams at you, your petty little plan vanishes like ash being blown away right in front of your eyes, almost a visible thing. He hurtles curses at you, and you feebly try to defend yourself and you block out his words of scorn and his truthful insinuations.

You run, and you scream and a new plan forms, and you feel more confident on this, so you play the victim you felt when your best mates abandoned you when you were fifteen. Sirius is bewildered at this, and for second – one inconsequential time-frame that just leaps ever forward onto another – he hesitates.

And for once your life you do the smart, logical thing, and you shrink back into cowardice and you shout an Unforgivable at the innocent muggles, jumping from human to vermin, and you leave behind all pretence of being a loyal friend. You run, and you make the mistake of looking back.

* * *

**I'm really oddly proud of this. It came from a review that i got from my dear dotdotdot fic thingy about one letter i did from Wormtail to his friends. **

**I thought i'd elaborate on it and this came out. If you spot any errors, please tell me, I have a habit of accidentally reading over them.**


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